Deus Ex Machina, (6/6)

The Times Book Review had once described Reed and Harold as “literary siblings, with Garvey as the younger brother always aspiring to equal his elder. Unfortunately, Brennan’s operating on another plane of sophistication, and as much as Garvey might ape his plots or themes, he’ll always lack Brennan’s understated grace.”

Harold had never forgotten that quote, and ever since it’d been published, Reed smiled at him in a way that suggested he hadn’t, either. Reed was pushing sixty now, but he hadn’t grown haggard and wrinkled. He had aged with what Harold bet he thought of as an “understated grace”. The smug bastard, with his hardly-thinning silver hair in a wind-blown part, as if he’d just come laughing off his yacht. No unsightly lines on his face, just a pair of avuncular lines about his mouth which could only be gained through hearty laughter, Harold imagined.

Deus Ex Machina, (5/6)

“Hey, Harry?” Natalie called from downstairs.

“Yeah?”

“Reed Brennan called back about the release party. He said he’d love to come, and he’d make sure Cindy wouldn’t wear That Sweater. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Uh… no idea, honey!”

Deus Ex Machina, (4/6)

The next morning, Harold sat at his computer in a contented stupor, looking at the manuscript. Ryan had said to get some edits back pronto, and that’s what Harold intended to do. He at least wanted to make some kind of impression on the text before it was loosed on the world, claim some small ownership. His blinking cursor accused him as he selected a sentence and rewrote it, nothing more than a thesaurus edit. Even that felt like throwing acid in the face of Helen of Troy. Practically wincing, Harold scrolled through the manuscript randomly, adding bits or rephrasing things, never deleting. After an hour’s work – during which he never even approached the creative trance that made writing worthwhile – he saved, attached, and sent the file back to the publisher.

He only had a few minutes to sit glumly before the phone rang. He picked up and held the handset a cautious distance from his ear, in case Ryan planned another outburst.

Deus Ex Machina, (3/6)

“A novel? When?”

“Just now, that’s what I’ve been doing all day.”

“And you didn’t say anything? Oh, Harry, that’s terrific! But – but how are you sitting still right now? When you’ve finished something, you’re always, I don’t know… frisky.”

What Harold thought was, well, wife of mine, that’s because I didn’t actually write this book I claim to have finished. But what Harold said was, “It’s just – it’s taking a little while to sink in, that’s all. Don’t worry, I’ll paw at you later, right now I need to know if you’ll read it. You’ve always been first, and I just don’t know what to think of this thing.”

Deus Ex Machina, (2/6)

“Who was that?”

“Huh?” A dazed Harold swung his head and saw Natalie leaning in the doorway, wearing one of his old flannel button-ups and watching him carefully. “Oh, just Ryan wielding his whip.”

“Ah. Trying to squeeze blood from a stone, huh?”

“Something like that.” Harold decided to check his email – Ryan had said he’d sent something. He went upstairs to his study and booted up the computer. Just what the hell had he been going on about? Excitability like that suggested some premium, designer drugs, and he couldn’t afford that, considering what Harold paid him. The welcome screen came on, and Harold punched in his password, which was ‘nitid’ because it was his hapax legomenon. He’d tossed it into Vine Trellis expressly for that purpose. Harold clicked to frequently used programs, then on his email client (grimacing when he noticed his word processor nowhere on the list).

1 Unread Message.

Deus Ex Machina, (1/6)

Shockingly, I couldn’t fill even a short month with my bummer writings. Instead, to take us through the rest of the month, here’s one of my favorite stories I’ve written in the last two years. Hope you enjoy.

Harold glanced at the front page then decided against it, folding the paper and tossing it on the table. He leaned back and slurped coffee, eyes narrowed against the heat. Lots of fans asked him where he got his ideas. It was a preposterous question, naturally, but his favorite answer was the newspaper. They always looked at him funny for a second, like they knew he was pulling their leg, then they said “huh” and took their seat. Harold suspected they felt a bit foolish, because the ones that asked this question were always self-described as “aspiring”, and they were always looking for an excuse why they weren’t published. Maybe they hoped he would confess a fairy or a muse whispered plots to him in quiet moments, but the newspaper? Man, they must think, I get the newspaper! Damn!

At the moment, Harold desperately wished that he did get his ideas from the newspaper. He had not written a single usable word in three months, precisely ninety-three days. This drought concerned him more than barren wasteland that was his sex life. Harold and his wife had not been conjugal for something like sixty-eight days – it would have been more had the crafty Harold not suggested to Natalie that perhaps sex would undam his creative energies. His muse had rolled her eyes but agreed, mainly, Harold suspected, so she could get a brief respite from his constant bitching about his creative impotence. Unfortunately for Harold, all he had been able to think about was this creative impotence until suddenly the ‘creative’ was removed from the equation entirely.